Oddity
by Hoshi-tachi
Summary: It was always the oddities that caught Sherlock Holmes' eye... and nothing could be more odd than this.
1. Odd

**Oddity  
**_Hoshi-tachi_

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It was the oddities that always caught the eye of Sherlock Holmes. That man's knee dusted with a shade of earth not native to the surrounding streets and alleyways, that lady's sleeve torn in a way that could not have come from the snag of a nail. The way the baker's eyes lingered on the wife strolling along the path on her husband's arm, and how her eyes took a moment to pass his; one day she would stray from her marriage, but it would not be this day. The usual had no interest for the detective. It was dross to be disregarded in favor of the random sparkle of the weird.

Packs of ragged children were a common sight on the streets of London. They roamed in search of food, pennies, or entertainment, dependent upon the financial situations of their families (provided they had one). Shop owners and constables sometimes chased them off, but for the most part they were ignored by all and sundry. Holmes valued that quality and employed his own pack of children, the Baker Street Irregulars, to great effect in the culmination of his cases. When the children dashed past him, laughing and shouting, he moved to the side without thought, for the chance he would be knocked over, and might not have spared them a second thought but for the oddity he espied.

Blonde hair and blue eyes were not unusual in England at all. His own roommate, the good Doctor John Watson, was possessed of both, in fact. But blonde hair, paired with blue eyes bearing an oriental tilt and an epicanthic fold… unusual indeed.

Holmes watched the gang of boys as they moved down the street, altering his path to follow theirs without thought. He chuckled to himself as a short loaf of bread disappeared into the sleeve of one while the baker's attention was still on the gentleman's wife, and noted it was his quarry who had so deftly managed the theft. 'Twas not a birth illness responsible for his eyes then- as there was one with that effect- not with such unusual grace to the boy's movements.

A sailor's by-blow from traveling in the Far East, perhaps, or of one of the rare travelers to come to England from the same, with most relations between the empires taking place on the island of Hong Kong. Holmes would not have expected it, however; Asiatics were invariably dark of hair and eyes, traits that any children should have shown. A grandchild? How had he come to roam the streets? There was that in his movements that recalled to Holmes the bits and trifles of _baritsu_ he had picked up from loitering in dockside pubs and the brawls he had partaken of in the same. It seemed unlikely that a child could have learned it in the same manner as he had, here in dreary England.

As Holmes watched, once safely past the bakery the boy passed the bread to another of the pack, briefly facing Holmes himself with the movement. Blue eyes seemed to meet his own gray for a moment, and then continued on. In that moment the detective was surprised to note that what he had thought to be smears of dirt on the boy's face (which was also more defined than expected; due to his size, Holmes had thought him perhaps eleven years of age, and he now added two to three years to his estimate) were in fact markings, perhaps tattoos.

The group of street children was approaching an intersection. Knowing they intended to cross, Holmes increased his pace so as not to lose them amidst the traffic. An empty hansom was approaching, rattling over the cobblestones, and the boys dashed ahead of it with shrieks of laughter and high spirits. The horse pulling the hansom shied, and its driver rained curses down upon the heads of the rascals, who took little notice of his ire.

As the cab passed on, Holmes searched the pack of children, seeking to reacquire his target, and was dismayed to find that in the few moments the boy had been out of his line of sight, he had vanished. A thorough examination of the street ahead, and of the avenue to either side, revealed no sign of the bright blonde hair, and no children of the proper height who might be hiding it by means of a hat.

Thoroughly put out by the loss of his quarry, it was some time before the detective was forced to admit defeat, and resolved to return to his lodgings on Baker Street. Perhaps he would mention the brief encounter to Watson. His roommate would undoubtedly enjoy hearing that Holmes was not infallible.

On the parapet of a tenement overlooking the site where Holmes had dithered for a time, blue eyes narrowed in contemplation. Though young, he had much reason to be wary of any man who followed him, and he resolved to commit the man's face to memory. Perhaps they would meet again.

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A/N: This came about due to an obsession begun by the new movie, and fed by the original tales. I wondered what fandom might most perplex the detective and, knowing that Star Wars had already been done, pondered upon Naruto. I'd never written Naruto before, and only vaguely recalled once watching the first episode of the anime back in high school, but when has that ever stopped me? Every author needs a crack!fic or two… This is not a high priority- updates will come as I receive inspiration- but I do enjoy writing in this style...

And please don't ask how Naruto wound up in Victorian England. It makes my head hurt to think about it.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing pertaining to either Naruto or Sherlock Holmes.

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25 December 2010


	2. Unusual

Holmes gave little thought to the boy again until, through unlikely circumstances, he encountered him during the course of a case. Not as a victim or even a suspect, thankfully, but rather as an obstacle to the questioning of a witness.

A fairly well-known, and generally well-to-do, man of a shipping business had reported the thieving of his wife's best bits of jewelry, a set of emerald earrings in gold and a matching brooch. Suspicion had naturally fallen upon the wife's maid, whom had been with the household only a matter of weeks. Questioning by the constables had not revealed where the jewels had been hidden (for such a short time had passed before a hue and cry had been raised that the thief could not have taken them far), and the maid continued to claim innocence in the matter. Holmes quite agreed, and indeed was quite convinced that the perpetrator of the crime was another member of the household entirely.

It was a dozen small, incontrovertible clues that had led him to this conclusion, but through long experience Holmes knew Scotland Yard would require something more sensational in the way of evidence before they would let the girl go. The man of the house had mentioned chasing off a small gang of boys loitering near the front of the house not an hour before the theft took place. Holmes was of a mind to track down those boys, in the hopes that one might have witnessed the thief about his work, and perhaps even be able to lead Holmes to his chosen hidey-hole. If Holmes could produce the jewelry, it was far more likely that the men of the law would see their way through to justice and let the poor maid go free.

It didn't take the detective long to determine how to go about locating the ruffians. Holmes waylaid the first urchin he came across and pressed a copper penny into the dirty palm. "I would be most interested in speaking to anyone who might have been around the end of the lane with the two lanterns near to this time yesterday," he said.

The boy stared at him with great suspicion, but at last scampered off, the penny clutched tight in his fist. Holmes was not particularly worried by this. While it was possible the boy had simply taken the money and run, Holmes knew he had a good reputation among those living on the fringes of London society. He projected a nearly certain probability that the boy would return, if only to inform the detective that there had been no such witness.

An hour passed, and Holmes had just begun to reassess that possibility when there was a wet cough behind him. The detective spun about to see another urchin, one suffering from some respiratory ailment and a not-insignificant bout of scurvy, judging by his dry, though filthy hair and the slight swelling of his joints.

"Yer ta come wit' me," he muttered, coughing again into his elbow. "I'm ter take yeh ta the dipper was workin' tha' drag."

Holmes nodded in reply, and followed the boy down several winding streets and alleys. They at last came to a small nook littered with refuse, containing two more boys in ragged urchins' clothing. One stood in plain view in what light made its way through the dismal skies and between looming buildings, while the other lingered in deep shadow. Despite the lingering glance Holmes sent in his direction, the detective could tell nothing distinct about his appearance. A grey, shapeless cap hid any hair color, and the shadows dimmed his face to anonymity. The boy's- assuming it was, indeed, male- stance was tense, almost predatory.

A guard, then. Well, Holmes had hardly expected trust, merely information exchanged for coin. He dismissed the guard from his immediate thoughts and turned his attention to the urchin who was obviously his witness. His guide had already vanished back down the alleyways, leaving only the echoes of footsteps and the occasional cough.

The business was transacted precisely as Holmes had expected and to his satisfaction. Now armed with the knowledge that the son had indeed visited a lane near the home and loitered near a section of loose bricking, he reached into his pocket for his money purse and stepped forward.

There was the dull glint of metal from the corner of his eye, and Holmes stilled. The guard had taken his movement as a potentially hostile act, and drawn a blade, now held in such a way as to be easily thrown. Surprisingly, the glint of reflected light had come not from the leaf-shaped blade of the knife, but rather from the hoop placed oddly at the end of the narrow hilt. Overall, the instrument was one he was entirely unfamiliar with, and Holmes resolved to note down every detail of it he could recall upon the instant of his return to Baker Street. If there were to ever be a crime committed with such a blade, he would now be prepared to recognize it.

Slowly, Holmes wrapped his fingers about his purse and withdrew it from his waistcoat. Seeing it, the guard relaxed in turn, and the blade vanished with the barest flick of his fingers. The detective found himself impressed. Knife skills weren't uncommon in the least on the streets of London, but given the likely age of the small figure still hidden by the shadows, Holmes shouldn't like to be on the wrong side of him in an alley dispute without a revolver on his part.

The witness accepted his penny with glee, dashing away as soon as it was in his hands. Half-expecting that the guard would be gone when he turned 'round, Holmes was surprised to see he had lingered.

"Why?" he asked the detective, his voice high and light. The possibility of a young girl was reopened, but Holmes yet leaned towards his original belief of male. There was an accent, heavy, but indefinable given so brief a sample.

As for the question itself, there were several potential interpretations to be considered. "Why" had Holmes paid a street urchin, where other men would renege and think nothing of it? "Why" was the information he sought important? "Why" did Holmes desire the information to begin with?

The detective chose to answer the last, believing it the most likely sought. "There is a young girl, a maid in a household, who has been wrongly accused of a crime and will now go free. I will be able to prove the true culprit to all satisfaction."

The guard studied him closely, head tilted to the side like a curious feline. At last he nodded, and stepped forward out of the shadows. Holmes was astonished to recognize blue, Asiatic eyes, not seen for some months; the distinctly bright hair was covered by the floppy cap. At this near distance, the markings on his face that the detective had wondered over revealed themselves to be three thin lines, drawn over each cheek in a gently curving horizontal.

The odd boy was past him before Holmes could rouse himself. "Wait!" the man called out, dashing down the alleyway after him. He was out of sight already- just how quickly could he move? Certainly faster than Holmes could manage, for 'round the nearest corner was another narrow alley populated only by refuse and rats.

"Again!" Holmes huffed. On a whim he looked upwards, but of course there were only the steep brick walls, with nothing to climb and no time for the boy to have done so.

Perhaps he'd best not mention this second episode to Watson. The good doctor would never let him hear the end of it.

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Dipper: a pickpocket.  
Drag: in this context, a street.

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A/N: My apologies for its lateness, Mr. Evil. There was much interference. Firstly I assisted my mother in moving house by way of oversized U-haul truck from Washington, D.C. to Spokane, Washington State, then left her to continue the rest of her journey to Anchorage, Alaska so I could repair home to take up, at long last, occupation for myself. Adjusting to said occupation has been a full, often painful experience.

Fortunately, though previously unfortunately, my muses are the perverse such that only appear when I am so occupied as to make writing difficult. I can only hope that, now being gainfully employed, my writing will pick up as well.

In pleasant news, whereas this chapter wallowed for lack of a plan, I already have an idea of how the next meeting will proceed.


	3. Peculiar

(**Happy Birthday Mel!** - from Triple E, your best friend)

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For all of Holmes' determination, he was not the one to next meet his elusive oddity. That honor fell to the good Doctor Watson, who returned home from the surgery to find three street urchins waiting in the stairwell. Mrs. Hudson was keeping a stern eye on them that they did not track mud about, nor make off with anything valuable, though even the matron could not help but glance with concern at the red stains on the sleeves of the younger and smaller boys. Watson's first thought had been that they were there for Holmes, given that the tallest boy was one he would have called one of Wiggins' lieutenants in the Baker Street Irregulars, but the injury brought to mind the second consideration that his own skills might be in need.

Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a relieved nod. "Doctor. These were waiting for you," she confirmed his thoughts. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that should be all. Thank you for waiting," Watson said absentmindedly, already ushering the three boys upstairs to his and Holmes' rooms as he recalled the state of his medical bag. The doctor was running low on plasters, but he'd restocked his antiseptic that very morning. "I don't recall these two, Samson. Are they recent additions to the Irregulars?" he asked as he closed the door to the living area behind them.

"Nah, Doctor," Samson replied. Watson was amused to note the way one of the strange boys, the one with startlingly bright blond hair, pointedly nudged the smallest boy to sit down on the settee. Once upon a time, Watson would have winced at the thought of the none-too-clean boys sitting on Mrs. Hudson's furniture, but said furniture had already undergone nearly everything Holmes could throw at it and survived mostly intact. A little dirt would not hurt it, though he would need to remember to take especial in cleaning their wounds. "They run wit' t' Tottenham Boys, owed a mate a favour an' bringin' 'em here is squarin' t' deal."

"I see." Watson moved towards the settee himself, intending to kneel to tend to the boys and already anticipating the ache that his leg would take up later that night. Instead he found that he could not take another step, as the blond child's gaze swiveled at his movement and pinned him in his tracks. His eyes were remarkably blue, wary and nearly feral as they studied the man carefully, and Watson was surprised to find he did not feel safe to move until they softened and the boy stepped away from the settee. He nodded once to the doctor, and then gestured towards his companion and the settee's open seat.

Understanding that he was meant to treat the younger boy first, Watson hastily sat and deployed his medical bag. Gratitude for the consideration- for he had seen the boy's gaze linger on his leg and the old war wound concealed by his trousers- warred with wariness, as Watson kept a careful eye on the boy in turn. For a moment, he had felt as dangerous as any man as Watson had ever known, and in a life spent frequently in the company of Sherlock Holmes, he had met many of London's more dangerous residents. While Watson found the boy's protectiveness of his companion to be commendable, given that the second urchin could be no more than nine years of age, nevertheless the doctor would not turn his back to him this night.

The wound was revealed to be a dog's bite, teeth marks clearly showing in both skin and clothing. Some of the punctures had already ceased to bleed, and Watson was forced have the child suffer their reopening to be cleansed. The boy might have squirmed away, protesting the sting of the iodine, but blue eyes stared at him until his movements subsided. Then Watson was wrapping the thankfully shallow wound with clean bandages, wishing idly that he might have the blond boy for an assistant with some of his more fractious patients at the surgery.

That task completed, he turned next to the blond, who shook his head. "I am not hurt," he said in slow, heavily-accented but clear English, and Watson was startled to note for the first time the unusual slant to those blue eyes that indicated he was not the native that Watson had first assumed. Something about that description seemed briefly familiar to him, but the thought was passing, as his irritation was a more compelling emotion.

"Come now, I can see the blood and the tearing in your sleeve," Watson protested sternly, catching the boy's eyes with his own. Dangerous or not, Watson would not allow anyone, let alone a young boy, to go with a wound untreated. Given the boy's likely living conditions, it would be septic inside two days.

"Not my blood," the boy replied, shaking his head again and gesturing to his companion. Watson assumed that he was meant to believe that the blood had transferred in the course of helping the other urchin, but he refused to believe. One could not spend much time in the company of the famous detective without picking up a few observational skills of their own, and he could very clearly determine that the tearing in the sleeve had to have resulted in similar wounds.

"Nevertheless, I would prefer to examine the area to be sure," Watson said, preparing to rise from the settee if the boy refused again. Any reply, however, was cut off as the door downstairs slammed closed, and footsteps raced up the stairs. Holmes burst through the door, a sheaf of papers within his hands, and he hardly slowed at the sight of Watson accompanied by three street urchins. Only his long experience with Holmes let Watson catch the way his eyes flick over his medical bag and the freshly-applied bandage, and understand how the detective reached the undoubtedly simple conclusion of the evening's events. Somewhat more surprising was the startled glance of recognition Holmes gave the blond, but Watson was determined that he would succeed in his goal, and pushed off his curiosity for later.

Using the distraction of Holmes' entrance, Watson reached out and snagged the blond boy's sleeve, pulling it aside to clear his view of the wound. What he saw so surprised him that he gave no resistance when the boy tore away from him, and all three boys were out the door and down on the street before the doctor thought to protest.

"How peculiar," he said at last, to Holmes' back as the detective stood at the window.

"I have thus far found him to be so, yes," Holmes replied, his face pensive as he at last turned away. No doubt the boys had moved out of sight. "What is it that you have noted in this particular instance?"

Holmes really had met the boy before, then. Likely it had been on one of those cases that took place when Watson was busy with his duties to his patients and thus unable to attend. "The younger boy had been bitten by a dog, and I cared for the wound. The second one, the blond, appeared to have also suffered a dog's bite. His sleeve was torn in precisely the same way, and there were spreading blood stains on the cloth."

Holmes nodded approvingly. "Spreading stains to indicate a bleeding wound, as opposed to smears indicating transfer, very good, Doctor. And the peculiarity?"

Watson closed up his medical bag, considering his words and what he had seen. "He was reluctant for me to treat him. He was insistent that he bore no wound- and you know he is not English, of course?- and it was only when you returned that I was able to examine it, for a bare moment." He paused again. "…Despite the tears in his clothing, and the blood stains, and that there indeed _was_ blood on his skin, in a pattern consistent with a dog bite, there was no actual wound. I cannot for the life of me think of how or why it could appear so."

Holmes seemed surprised, and then thoughtful as he crossed the room to his accustomed chair. "Peculiar indeed. The mystery deepens each time I chance across him, it seems."

He reached for his pipe. "On the next occasion, should there be one, I shall be sure to obtain some answers."

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A/N: In this edition of _RL News_, the author has been promoted at work, leading to more interesting tasks, but fewer hours a week for anything else. Thank Evil D. Evil for requesting this chapter.

Said chapter went through three plot revisions, only in the last incarnation turning to the good Doctor for aid in storytelling. Holmes just wasn't solving the problem. There is also a ridiculous amount of research that goes into these, given their infinitesimal lengths and the fact that I doubt anyone really, truly cares but me.

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6 July 2011


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